Poetry

The moon clouds over and is done. The Polish crones roam Mutual Tower spitting, polishing, sifting the trash for small gifts their grandchildren will turn into trash. Deep in the folds of the dark, some poor infant cries and cries for comfort and will not be calmed. Under the police siren’s wail it continues, clearing…

1 Hey, Joe When my sister was in college whenever she wrote a paper she’d sit there picturing her teacher reading it collapsing with derision rushing to phone a friend — “Hey, Joe — ya gotta hear this one!” She’d go on about this fantasy to a friend of ours, who, around this time, got…

For you it was not much of a time, and you sat calmly waiting for it to end and dissolve you on into the walk through wind back to the office building; waiting for it to be past and just a dim memory of a long table of vaguely chuckling faces; waiting for this one…

Sap withdraws from the upper reaches of maples; the squirrel digs deeper and deeper in the moss to bury the acorns that fall all around, distracting him. I’m out here in the dusk, tired from teaching and a little drunk, where the wild asters, last blossoms of the season, straggle uphill. Frost flowers, I’ve heard…

for E.B., 1911-1979 We had to hurry to catch the open silver train that jingled the rim of the park. It was early, Sunday, summer-hazy, and we imagined we were the only ones around: only also the quick Catalonian boys — jumped from the red hibiscus hedge, and ran along the rail, and grabbed expertly…

Beside the rocking horse, for which she has grown too large, and the shirts that hang still on the line, she looks down. The face is dour and pale with something private, and will not admit the journalist, up from Boston for country color. How well she knows these hills — green receding unaccountably to…

“Surely in a brutal job-ridden, Puritanical, Billy Grahamized America, poetry of pleasure, describing the six or seven lovely things you did that day, is a victory of sorts.” —Robert Bly For instance planting the seed called six or seven,      lovely in itself, borderline, especially considering the six or seven layers of sleep            we had…

The Greek takes Trixie on midnight walk, not much talk except she points skunk and he runs after it. Which started Trixie thinking, “Gee this guy’s different. Maybe I feel better if I let him move in.” When she finds out his love ever after stuff means give up stripjoints cut down drugs — He…

We sit down at the table, with the herbs, the dish of salt, the plates and the broken bread. Everything is in order, everyone in his place peers out like a sentry from his skull, when the door opens and we see the palms of heaven. No one disturbs us, and yet news arrives: we…